Rikers War Episode Two
by jsk
Summary: Riker seeks an alliance with the Klingon Empire


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DISCLAIMER: "Star Trek" is the copyrighted by Paramount, and Paramount  
owns Star Trek and the Star Trek Universe. The following story is   
not-for-profit.  
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Riker's War: Episode 2  
======================  
  
The Da'Haar Master  
------------------  
(c) Jasjit Singh, June 1999  
  
***** Let him go forth through the land, being pure in his heart and right  
in his views, let him have resolve so that he is prepared for the task at  
hand, let him have right speech so that he chooses his words wisely, let  
him have right action, so that his procedures are well thought out, let  
him have right livelihood so that he earns his bread with honesty, let him  
have right attention, so that he may stay upon the path of the Da'Haar,  
let him have right meditation, so that he may give full mindfulness to the  
tasks he must accomplish.   
  
And let him henceforth be known as a Da'Haar Master. *****  
  
  
The USS Decatur floated slowly in the dead of space, operating at  
minimum power. The stars winked silently as the ship silently  
floated past unobtrusively. Captain Riker sat in his ready room, sprawled  
across his chair, head thrown back, fallen into a troubled sleep.  
  
His communicator beeped and woke him up abruptly. He came to with a  
start, and then realized where he was.  
"Captain," it was the voice of Lieutenant Worf, "We are approaching  
communications range to Q'onos."  
"I'm on my way," Riker stood and rubbed the grogginess out of his eyes  
before walking out onto the bridge.  
  
The Decatur was a strong ship, in need of a captain; after the  
Enterprise had been destroyed, Riker had taken command of the Decatur. He  
had had to perform crew reassignments once again, but this time Data had  
been with him to offer suggestions and make the decisions, and that  
had made things considerably easier. Commander Shelby had been assigned to  
the Crazy Horse. Troi, Beverly Crusher and Worf had remained with Riker  
aboard the Decatur. LaForge and Wesley Crusher had been reassigned to the  
USS Fitzgerald. With all the shuffling around, they had managed to keep  
the starships operating at minimum levels, although some had only a   
skeleton crew.  
  
The Decatur was such a ship. Since there had been little time for  
repairs, all but the most critical systems that had been damaged had been  
shut down.  
  
And so it was that Riker found himself aboard a dimly lit bridge which  
felt rather chilly. He shivered and hugged himself, settling down in his  
chair. Worf had been attempting to establish a communications channel  
with Chancellor K'mpec of the Klingon High Council. Finally, after  
several tries, the connection was made. Worf announced that the  
communications channel was open.  
  
Riker put on his best poker face as Chancellor K'mpec's face filled the  
viewscreen. He was getting old, this Klingon, with strands of grey hair  
starting to show, and the weight of one too many large meals beginning to  
slow him down. But he smiled a toothy smile upon seeing Riker, and let  
his guard down.  
"Commander Riker, well met," rumbled K'mpec in a guttural tone.  
"It's Captain now," corrected Riker. "And well met to you, Chancellor."  
"Captain? Oh, I should congratulate you."  
"I'm afraid, under the circumstances, there was no other alternative."  
  
K'mpec nodded understandingly, studying Riker's weary face.  
"Earning a field commission is a difficult, and honorable task. You have  
proven yourself worthy in battle," declared K'mpec. "We did hear news of  
the abduction of Picard. It is a tragedy, and an injustice. I respected  
Picard. He was a noble warrior."  
Riker opened his mouth but found it difficult to push any words past his  
throat. He looked down awkwardly, his mouth open. The calm old Klingon's  
words had jarred loose memories and emotions that Riker had held in check  
for so long, and now they were starting to flow again, like a river let  
loose...  
  
...No, I must retain control. I must be strong. I have sworn an oath and  
I shall make it so...  
  
Riker clamped his mouth shut and grit his teeth. He looked back up at  
K'mpec, this time his face a mask, devoid of any emotion. K'mpec nodded  
as if Riker had spoken to him. He seemed to have read his thoughts.  
  
"Earth," began Riker, his own voice sounding foreign and distant to him,  
"has been assimilated. The small handful of ships that survived the  
massacre and assimilation are all that is left of the Federation."  
"What do you intend to do?" asked K'mpec.  
"The Borg are conquering new territories, assimilating new peoples. I  
intend to put a stop to them. But I need your assistance."  
"Indeed," K'mpec sighed and considered for a moment. And then he nodded.  
"The relationship between the Federation and the Klingon Empire has been  
an amiable one. The Federation has always stood true to it's promises.  
And Picard, well, he was a great Klingon warrior, you know."  
  
Riker nodded. He was vaguely aware of Klingon spiritual beliefs. A  
person was never simply the result of the life experience of one single  
being at any time, but rather the culmination of many beings, all from  
previous lives. And so Picard, in a previous lifetime or existance,  
before he had become human, had been a Klingon. Or so K'mpec believed.  
  
K'mpec smiled when he said his next words. "Captain Riker, of the esteemed  
Federation, we will give you assistance."  
  
Riker again found himself at a loss for words. Instead he simply smiled  
and nodded in gratitude. Klingons were very unpredictable, in their wrath  
as well as generosity.  
  
***  
  
The Klingon ship Mast'k was scheduled to rendez-vous with the Decatur in  
orbit of the third outer planet from the Q'onos solar system. Riker found  
himself sitting in his chair with a feeling of hope for the first time in  
more months than he cared to remember. Beside him, Troi sensed the  
long-lost emotion and a thin smile played upon her lips.  
"Will," she leaned forward in her chair and gave his hand a squeeze.  
Riker smiled at her.  
"With the Klingons on our side, we will have a fighting chance against the  
Borg," he said.  
"How many ships do you think they will be able to spare?" she wondered.  
"Oh, more than a handful at the very least. K'mpec never went back on his  
word, ever since I've known him," Riker answered. "And if we're lucky, we  
might even have enough to build an attack fleet."  
Troi raised her eyebrows. It took over forty ships to build an attack  
fleet. Memories of the massacre at Wolf 359 were still fresh in  
everyone's minds. But surely Klingon war cruisers were more hardy in  
battle than Federation starships...  
  
"Captain, incoming transmission, the Klingon Imperial war cruiser Mast'k,"  
Worf reported. Riker smiled as the viewscreen displayed the welcome sight  
of a massive Klingon war cruiser decloaking in front of the Decatur.  
Riker nodded to Worf to open a channel.  
"Channel open."  
  
The Captain of the Mast'k was a knarly man, battle-hardened and austere,  
not given to pleasantries. He liked Riker well enough, though, and  
grunted and cursed in Klingon liberally.  
"Captain Riker," he declared while stomping across his bridge, inspecting  
instruments and readouts, "we have a delivery to make for you, upon  
special order of Chancellor K'mpec of the Klingon High Council!"  
"On behalf of the Federation, whatever is left of it, I hereby accept,"  
replied Riker, with formality.  
The Captain nodded and spat, and then yelled an insult at one of his  
officers, who quickly scurried out of his way.  
"Prepare for a transport, notify us when ready," he said, taking his seat.  
Riker nodded, quizzed, and signalled to Worf.  
  
***  
  
Riker stalked along the hallways of the Decatur towards the transporter  
room, with Worf at his side.  
"What does this mean?" asked Riker impatiently. "Beam over? Beam over  
what? A weapon? A person? The Mast'k is preparing to leave, and what  
will we have once they are gone? Certainly not a *fleet* of ships!"  
  
Worf was silent. Riker glanced sidelong at him and cursed. Worf looked  
nonplussed. He said to Riker:  
"That would not qualify as a curse even by a childs standards. If you  
were Klingon I would have struck you across the face."  
  
And then he added as an afterthought: "...Sir."  
  
  
The transporter room was unusually quiet, as if the Universe was expecting  
something rare and strange to suddenly manifest itself. Riker nodded to  
the transporter chief, and the transporter was activated.  
  
A single Klingon beamed aboard.  
  
Upon seeing him Worf gasped and bowed his head.  
"Koloth, Da'Haar Master, you honor us with your presence," he said with  
reverence.  
Riker was puzzled at Worf's behavior. He stepped forward to introduce  
himself.  
"I am Captain Riker of the Federation starship Decatur," he said. The  
Klingon named Koloth smiled an easy smile, and bent his head in  
acknowledgement.  
"Koloth, I have been asked by the Klingon High Council to aid you in a  
task."  
"No disrespect meant, Koloth, but we were expecting ships, soldiers, and  
weapons, to aid in our fight against the Borg," said Riker, still puzzled.  
"Ah," Koloth smiled, "the Chancellor thought it best to send me instead."  
  
Riker sighed. He should have known better than to let hope rekindle, he  
thought. The Klingons were not prepared to get involved in a losing war.  
K'mpec had made a cursory gesture, but it was all he was prepared to do.  
Riker felt his heart sink, and all of a sudden all his joints were aching,  
and he felt weary, and tired, so tired. Almost unable to move. He  
nodded slowly.  
"Mr Worf, please show Koloth to his quarters," he managed to say, and as  
Worf led Koloth out of his transporter room, Riker leaned on the console  
for support.  
  
***  
  
Riker sat in his ready room, his head in his hands, while the still  
darkness of the room surrounded him. The Decatur was in high warp, headed  
towards the outlying colonies surrounding Deneb II, where their last  
encounter with the Borg had been, and where the Crazy Horse and other  
starships waited anxiously for the return of the Decatur with a fleet of  
Klingon warships. Riker shuddered. When had he acquired this losing  
streak, he wondered. He remembered a time, it seemed distant and long  
ago, when there wasn't a battle he couldn't win. Parees'es Squares, with  
his father, a battle drill in Starfleet academy, negotiations with the  
Semneni, trade with the Ferengi, or winning the heart of a delightful   
young lady...  
  
...I had never lost in my life until the Borg. I had never given up in my  
life. Until the Borg ...  
  
The door chimed and disturbed his reverie. He lifted his head and rubbed  
his sore eyes.  
"Come in," he said, more of a sigh than anything else. The doors slid  
open and Worf walked in, looking around at the darkness in surprise.  
"Computer, lights," said Riker, and the room lighted up.  
"Sir, Koloth wishes to speak with you about the mission," reported Worf.  
"What mission, Worf?" asked Riker incredulously, "there is no mission! We  
can't attack again without an entire squadron of ships! The Borg have  
adapted to our modified torpedoes. We have no weapon to use against them.  
And K'mpec saw it fit to send only one man!"  
  
Worf raised himself to his full height, eyes wide with indignation, and  
said, "He is a Da'Haar master."  
  
Riker stood up and began pacing the room.  
"You keep saying that, what does it mean anyway?" he asked.  
"It means, he can do what others cannot."  
  
Riker shook his head. "He is only one man. We have thrown every weapon  
and tactic that we have at the Borg, and then some. And still they keep  
coming. Nothing we can do will stop them! What makes you think that one  
man can do any better?"  
  
Worf spoke calmly, but his words were measured, filled with a sense of  
respect and understanding. "If that one man is a Da'Haar master, then  
all it takes, is only one man."  
  
***  
  
The Decatur had joined the Crazy Horse and other ships in the remaining  
Federation fleet, and they had taken up position just inside a nebula  
cloud, to hide from prying Borg sensors. Data and other captains had  
beamed over to the Decatur for a briefing, and a planned course of action.  
Koloth had been silent during most of the planning, observing, and  
listening, but rarely speaking. Afterwards, he had caught up with Data in  
the Engineering bay, and had struck a conversation.  
  
"Worf tells me, that you fear no man and no thing," Koloth said, studying  
Data intensely.  
"I am incapable of emotion, sir," Data replied.  
"And yet you put yourself in fatal danger while repairing a faulty launch  
mechanism on a torpedo, in just your last encounter with the Borg. Had  
the ejection system failed, you would have been killed."  
"Yes sir. But at that point in time, there was no alternative. The crew  
of the Enterprise were in grave danger, and needed the extra time the  
torpedo would allow, in order for them to be saved."  
"Ahhh," Koloth nodded slowly, "an android with a sense of honor."  
  
And he looked at Data in the most peculiar way.  
  
"I did not consider it any special act at the time, sir," said Data, his  
eyes flickering as a subroutine began a new computation in his positronic  
brain.  
"Oh no?" Koloth raised his eyebrows. "What was it, then?"  
"I was merely following my duty," replied Data, the computation nearing  
it's completion.  
"Duty? And what of self-preservation? You were ready to die for your  
fellow officers, were you not?"  
"It is part of being a Starfleet officer, sir," said Data, re-initializing  
the parameters of the computation, and starting again. Erroneous results.  
"And so, as I said, an android, with honor," Koloth stepped back as if to  
admire Data. "There are men, Captain, that I have known, Klingon men! And  
they would be lesser warriors than you on your worst day."  
  
With that declaration, Koloth walked off, leaving Data thinking. The  
computation returned it's results. Erroneous. Reinitialize parameters.  
Begin for loop. Return until successful. Compile and execute...  
  
***  
  
Riker sat at his desk in his ready-room with Koloth before him, seated  
staunchly upright in his chair, hands on his knees. Koloth had just  
detailed a battle plan to Riker, who now sat staring at the padd in front  
of him.  
"It can't work," he said finally. "We tried boarding the Borg cube  
before, we were not successful."  
"Your objective at the time was to rescue your former Captain. Our  
objective will be different."  
"Still, once you're aboard the cube, there may be no way to get you back."  
  
Koloth nodded once. "I am aware of that risk."  
  
"It's too dangerous," Riker said finally, pushing the padd away from him.  
  
"Captain, you requested help from Chancellor K'mpec because you wanted to  
achieve an objective. I can help you achieve it. But you must allow me  
to act."  
"It's too dangerous," Riker repeated.  
"Then give me one shuttlecraft," said Koloth, a sparkle coming into his  
eyes.  
"That's even worse odds!" cried Riker. "Are you mad?"  
"No Captain. One need be sound of mind, when going into battle. One need  
be sure of his abilities. Else one should not enter the battle."  
  
Riker looked at the warrior seated before him, solid as a rock, and as  
immovable. Confident. Strong. Victorious.  
  
...and why do I resist? Am I now a coward? But what he is proposing is  
suicide, for both us and him. It's madness. We have no weapon to use  
against the Borg, and we can't afford to lose any more ships...  
  
As if reading his thoughts, Koloth spoke. It was more of an incantation,  
and his words reverberated in Rikers mind.  
"Victory is not obtained by the stronger hand or the quicker foot. A  
troubled mind may never know victory, though he may conquer a hundred  
thousand foes. It is only when one knows himself, that he may find the  
true victory. It is only when one conquers his mind, may he be called a  
true warrior. After that, no foe may stand against him, from here to  
Stov'l Kohr, he shall reign Supreme."  
  
It might have been something in the warriors words, or perhaps Rikers own  
madness, but a doorway to his past opened before him, and Riker saw  
himself standing in Worf's quarters, goading him into joining a pointless  
battle...  
  
"What does the enemy have? They have shields, weapons, sensors,  
and a full crew complement. What do we have, we have no weapons, no  
shields, no warp drive...what do we have?" he had said. And the sleeping  
warrior within the Klingon had come to life. He had responded with one  
word to indicate that he was joining Riker:  
  
"Guile."  
  
  
And now it was Riker who awoke. He nodded, and said simply,  
"We'll go. Assemble your special away team."  
  
***  
  
The darkness of Space was made only darker by the floating Borg cube. It  
ebbed and hummed as the thousands of Borg drones went about their  
respective tasks inside the cube. There was no room for error, one  
thought, one mind. It was a normal days operation, and then the Decatur  
arrived. The Borg had been observing the ship on long range sensors for  
hours. But no course of action was decided. And so the ship had flew on,  
until now it came out of warp, and stood directly in front of them. It  
did not have shields on. It's weapons banks were not powered. It was  
sitting quietly, like a duck in water. The Borg paid it no regard.  
  
A short while later, a shuttlecraft emerged from the ship. It approached  
the Borg cube. It penetrated the electromagnetic shield. Now the Borg  
noticed. The Borg scanned the shuttlecraft. Four lifeforms. There was  
nothing of consequence. The shuttlecraft was venturing dangerously close  
to the Borg cube. It was bordering on becoming a threat. Weapons were  
scanned. Minimal. The cube was ignored.  
  
The occupants of the shuttlecraft transported onto the cube. They found  
themselves in one of many identical walkways bordering Borg regenerative  
alcoves. At a signal from Koloth, LaForge and Shelby headed towards the  
center of the cube, crisscrossing the many walkways and ladders.  
Meanwhile, Koloth, Worf, and Data began their work on the regenerative  
alcoves.  
"Our phasers will not be effective against the Borg once they adapt,"  
remarked Data, as he opened the control panel and ripped out circuits.  
"Then we will not need our phasers," replied Koloth. "What we *will*  
need, is the bat'leth"  
  
And he produced a bat'leth and handed it to Data.  
"You reviewed Worf's training program as I requested?" he queried.  
"Yes sir. I am now capable of several techniques, including the Enc'cha,  
the Har'varri, the Shuk'vaak and the Larr'rai."  
Koloth nodded and slapped Data on the shoulder. "Then let us begin!"  
  
The Borg drones began to react when the first row of alcoves were shut  
down. They turned from their tasks and headed towards the trio, who stood  
back to back with bat'leth's at the ready.  
"Wait for them," said Koloth, his voice steady and calm.  
  
Slowly, the drones walked towards them. When they reached arms length,  
Koloth shouted "Now!" and Worf slammed on the floor beneath his feet. The  
steel mesh of the floor gave way below him and the three of them fell to  
the walkway below, leaving a dozen drones staring down at them from above.  
  
But then more drones began advancing upon them from the current level.  
Koloth brandished his bat'leth and swung it around with a skilled hand,  
Data and Worf at his side. The three of them stood at the ready, the tips  
of their bat'leth's shining in the ambient light of the Borg cube.  
  
Worf's communicator beeped and LaForge's harried voice came over it, with  
phaser fire in the background.  
"LaForge here. We have found the primary power generator. I was able to  
gain access, but that intrusion alerted the Borg. We are now being  
attacked by the drones! Commander Shelby is holding them off with rotating  
phaser frequencies, but it won't be long before they adapt!"  
"Acknowledged!" replied Worf.  
  
The drones closed in upon their position, and the bat'leth's swung in  
unison. When they came up again, drones lay decapitated on the floor.  
The next wave of drones came at them. Worf swung his bat'leth, but it  
bounced back. The drone had adapted, and his sheild protected him. Worf  
tried again, yelling, but again the shield thwarted his blow. He turned  
to Data, who nodded and tapped at a communications device mounted on his  
armband. Half a second later he received a transmission from the  
shuttlecraft. He opened his tricorder and aimed it at the nearest drone.  
The drone was only steps away from him, and closing in. Data began typing  
on the tricorder.  
"Hurry," murmured Worf, as the drones closed in on the trio. Data's  
finger flew over the controls as he searched for the shield harmonic  
frequency. Finally, he located it, thirty three point seven Megahertz.  
Just as the drone grabbed Data's shoulder, the tricorder emmitted a  
low-level pulse, and the shield was neutralized.  
  
The sharp end of a blade found itself embedded inside the entrails of the  
Borg drone, and it crumbled down to the floor, deactivated.  
  
  
LaForge struggled to see clearly as phaser fire erupted around him. He  
knew he had the correct circuit board, but he just couldn't make out the  
control mechanism. It was going to be difficult to interface his computer  
to this. He was not even sure that it would work. Behind him, he heard  
Shelby's trembling voice.  
  
"They've adapted. We have about four seconds. Do what you can."  
  
Blindly he thrust his hand inside. He felt a shock as his fingers were  
singed by a force field.   
"Damn!" he cried, "I should have known! Damn!"  
  
  
Shelby stood with her back to Geordi, facing the oncoming drones. With no  
weapon to use against them, she had nothing to do but wait until they  
reached her. She had time to see their faces, looming, dead faces. Sad  
faces, she thought. She saw the oncoming dread of the drones, all  
uniform, all one, they even *looked* alike. She shuddered when she  
thought what it must feel to think and act alike.  
  
The drone closest to her reached out grabbed her shoulder. Instinctively  
she lashed out, thrusting it's arm upward, bending low and kicking  
savagely at it's midsection. Taken unawares, it lost it's balance and  
tumbled backwards into the other drones. Shelby grinned to herself.  
"Like dominoes," she thought.  
  
But others closed in on her, and she could not keep them all away. She  
thrust, and kicked, and pushed and shoved. She even used the bat'leth  
that Koloth had insisted she carry. But in the end, there were too many.  
Just as she dropped her guard, though, Data transported onto the walkway,  
behind the mass of drones that were crowding in on her.  
  
"Data!" she called to him. His usual calm features were replaced with an  
austere expression, almost like anger.  
  
"Stand firm, commander!" he called back to her, and ducked beneath her  
view. She nodded and took a deep breath. The drone nearest to her was  
six inches away from her face, and was beginning to insert a tubule into  
her neck.  
"Not me you don't!" she snarled into his dead eyes, and with a swing of her  
blade cut the tubules. A semi-clear liquid flowed out from them, which  
contained millions of tiny nanites. The drone stumbled back as she swung  
the bat'leth across it's neck, cleanly severing the head from the body.  
  
Meanwhile Data had cut a path through the Borg, and now reached her.  
Among all the black and blue, it was a relief for Shelby to see Data's red  
and black Federation uniform, albeit an old and worn one. He nodded to  
her and then asked LaForge.  
"How much longer, Geordi?"  
  
LaForge shook his head.  
"I was able to disable the force-field," he said, "I should be able to  
make the connections now."  
"Proceed," said Data, and then, turning to Shelby, "We must hold this  
position until Geordi has completed his task."  
  
Shelby nodded hesitantly and then turned back to the oncoming wave of  
drones.  
  
  
  
In the other section of the Borg cube, Koloth and Worf stood against a  
deactivated alcove, facing an onslaught of drones. Blood ran down Worf's  
face, and he breathed heavily.  
"You are wounded, Worf," observed Koloth, without taking his eyes off the  
enemy.  
"Yes," Worf nodded in between pants. "But I will stand until the end."  
"Today is not your day to die, Worf," replied Koloth, and he shoved Worf  
into one of the regeneration alcoves. He swung around to face him, eyes  
alive with fire.  
"Rest, tend to your wounds."  
Worf began to protest but the Da'Haar master raised a hand to silence him,  
and then turned to face the crowd alone.  
  
Armed with only a tricorder and a bat'leth, the lone Klingon danced among  
the enemy for what seemed like an eternity. Every time they adapted, he  
found their shield frequencies using Data's cleverly constructed program  
and deactivated them, following instantly with a deathly blow from his  
bat'leth, now stained black. Worf had seen nothing like this with his  
eyes, and even the stories he had heard in legend were nothing compared to  
what was happening now. How was this possible? It seemed almost  
supernatural, how those drones could not get close to Koloth. And they  
seemed, almost afraid to try and attack him. They were huddled around  
him, trying to advance, but each one that did, failed, and fell. He was  
like a dancer in a small clearing surrounded by darkness. His bat'leth  
and his self were one.   
  
Worf breathed heavily as he bandaged himself. But his wound was deeper  
than that...His vision blurred and he found himself slipping into  
unconsciousness.  
  
  
  
"Just a little more," LaForge cursed himself as he reached for the  
connections with his burnt fingers. He could not feel anymore with them,  
but he didn't care. He must connect his computer to the control mechanism  
of this power junction if anything was going to work. It seemed that  
Shelby and Data had been holding their position for hours, but in reality  
it had been only minutes. Finally, the wires snapped together and his  
computer began it's auto-initiation sequence. He glanced at it once to  
verify that it was indeed working properly.  
  
Yes it was. It had already begun the countdown sequence.  
  
"It's done, Let's go!" he yelled, as he stood and turned around. The  
sight that met his eyes caused his jaw to drop open. Data and Shelby were  
literally pushing back a thronging crowd of what seemed like hundreds of  
drones, using their bare hands. Meanwhile several assimilation tubules  
danced dangerously close to their bodies, dangling this way and that,  
leaking nanites everywhere. LaForge swallowed. Data tapped his  
communications device on his armband, and they were automatically  
transported back to the shuttlecraft.  
  
  
Even as they materialized fully onto the shuttlecraft, a Borg tractor beam  
locked on, and began pulling them in. Rikers anxious voice came over the  
comm.  
"Prepare for emergency beamout'!"  
  
  
They were beamed directly on board the bridge of the Decatur. Riker  
looked at them questioningly at the absence of Worf and Koloth.  
"We were unable to retrieve Koloth and Worf," explained Shelby. Riker  
sighed and nodded.  
"Geordi, were you able to install your device?" he asked Geordi, who  
nodded.  
"Aye sir. The Borg should have a big surprise waiting for them when they  
haul that shuttlecraft into their hanger."  
  
"Very good. Helm, prepare escape course, engage on my mark," said Riker,  
his voice dry and his throat bitter. He had lost his officer, and Koloth.  
  
Suddenly, Data spoke from the engineering station.  
"Sir, the shuttlecraft is emerging from the Borg cube," he said. Riker  
looked as the viewscreen showed the shuttle slowly fly out from under the  
shadow of the huge black cube.  
"Life signs?" he asked nervously.  
"Two life signs, one faint."  
"Beam them over to sick bay immediately!"  
"Aye sir..."  
  
A phaser shot out from the cube and struck the shuttlecraft. It exploded.  
  
"....transport complete."  
  
"Sick bay, do you have them?" Riker asked, feeling his heart beat  
violently. Seconds passed before Beverlys voice said "We have them"  
  
Riker turned to the helmsman.  
"Helm, get us out of here, maximum warp!"  
  
As the Decatur shot into warp, the crew caught a glimpse of the Borg cube  
on their main viewer, crumbling as it was destroyed from the inside out.  
The huge structure began to collapse, and folded like a tin can, various  
explosions destroying different parts of the cube. It was a magnificent  
sight, and Riker found that the bridge crew were cheering, a sound he had  
not heard in too long. He himself was smiling, as the cheering and  
whopping officers hugged him and each other, elated at their first victory  
against the Borg.  
  
***  
  
Riker stood in sick bay, watching the sleeping Klingon. Worf had regained  
consciousness, but had been kept in sick bay for a few days observation.  
Meanwhile they had met with the Mast'k again, and Koloth had returned to  
the Klingon ship. As he had stood on the transporter padd, Riker had  
looked up at him and said proudly,  
"Koloth, Da'Haar master, the Victorious, Kap'lah!"  
  
And the shimmering vanishing image of a smiling Koloth had replied  
"Kap'lah!"  
  
  
Riker turned to leave when he heard Worf speak.  
"You do not believe what Koloth has done," he said faintly. Riker turned  
back to the bed.  
"It is inconceivable that one man could alone have resisted so many  
drones. And then taken you, unconscious, to the shuttlecraft, removed the  
weapons to detonate in the Borg cube, and then find a way out."  
"I find it difficult to believe myself," replied Worf. "And what I saw  
while we were engaged in battle in the Borg cube, I cannot believe it.  
And yet, it is what I was always taught. You asked me before, who is a  
Da'Haar master. Da'Haar was a warrior, who fought alongside Kah'less  
himself. He was ancient when the youngest stars were born. He brought  
peace to the lands, and destroyed the dark enemies. And he taught our  
people how to follow the laws of Kah'less, and the way of the warrior.  
Down through the centuries, Da'Haar become a way of life, a practice of  
living. A discipline. Few practised it, because of the difficulty. Many  
more attempted, but failed. And only a Da'Haar master could teach anyone  
else, like Da'Haar himself had originally taken an apprentice warrior from  
the Ketha lowlands. Learning Da'Haar meant controlling your  
bloodlust, abstaining from drink and revelry, strange as it may seem  
for a Klingon. But following the way of the Da'Haar meant   
being ever vigilant, ready to fight at an instant's notice, learning  
the ways of the Universe, ways that I did not believe until this day.   
There are very few Da'Haar masters today, and of those only a fraction are  
known by the common men. It was a great honor to have met and fought with  
Koloth. Klingons like him, truly know about Stov'l Kohr. They visit  
there while alive, whereas other warriors have to wait until glorious  
death before they may enter."  
  
"I hope we see him again, someday," said Riker.  
  
"We will see him, when we reach Stov'l Kohr."  
  
  
T h e E n d  
(c) Jasjit Singh, 1999  
  



End file.
